One night last week, Larry and I sat on the back deck drinking icy cold tea and enjoying the evening breeze. The breeze blew the gnats away and made the twilight delightful. Calls I didn’t recognize resounded from the woods beside and behind our house. No mosquitos bothered us up there by the house, though. Maybe the breeze kept them at bay as well. Our dogs sprawled at our feet and occasionally, Charlie would bring his tennis ball for someone to throw. But he was tired, too, and was sprawling more than playing.
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Every night when I turn on the national news, I hear tale after tale about the sordid side of life. It matters little which network I choose—NBC, CBS, FOX, etc. Murder and mayhem fill the television screen. We watch acts of terror and unspeakable horror. Sometimes I just fast-forward through some of the stories because I cannot bear to hear even one more account of the horrible things people do to each other and to animals. I do appreciate the programs that end with something optimistic. We humans like stories with happy endings and of people reaching out to help each other. Wouldn’t it be nice to see more of those stories on the local level, too? We have nice people in our little town.
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Last week, Congress passed and President Obama signed legislation that will alter somewhat how federal law enforcement can monitor our phone calls in the future.

Given that I am a recognized power player in world affairs and that one dangled participle in this column can send shock waves from Ulan Bator to Unadilla, I have to assume that no matter what the changes, I will still have a crack staff of spies listening in on my conversations.
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By Dick Yarbrough
I have the greatest respect for the Georgia State Patrol. Theirs is a tough job with roughly 900 troopers available to cover a state of 59,500 square miles and deal with the kind of carnage they see almost daily on Georgia’s highways. If all of this isn’t difficult enough, now they are being required to enforce the so-called “Slow Poke” law. One trooper was quoted recently as saying not enough people are aware of the law. Consider this a public service announcement, dear reader: If you are going 70 miles per hour in the left lane — the maximum posted speed limit on our Interstates — and some Dale Earnhardt-wannabe comes flying up on your tail doing 80 mph (which I believe constitutes breaking the law. Please correct me if I am wrong) you must move over or be cited for driving the speed limit. I don’t blame the State Patrol for being required to enforce a law that encourages breaking the law. I blame the geniuses in the Legislature who passed it. ...
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By Mary Ann Ellis
When Josh moved to Virginia and took his dog Bentley with him, Larry and I agreed that we’d not have another dog. We are aging; a dog underfoot could well cause an accident. Dogs cost money; we’d save millions by remaining dogless. Besides, we’d get attached to another dog and have our hearts broken yet again. We’ve kept that promise not to get another dog; we got three instead. We never actively sought another dog; they sought us. We have “Sucker” printed on our foreheads in dog language. Even the most illiterate dogs can read it.
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By the time The Baxley News-Banner hits the stands next week, both Appling County High School and Appling Christian Academy will have new graduates strutting about the county. Grins will still fill their faces, and rightfully so. Many of their wallets still hold the cash that came as presents for this auspicious occasion. Only a few days have passed since the commencement ceremony and the excitement lingers.
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My recent open letter to Georgia’s public school teachers produced as much response as I have received in a long time. Teachers from one end of the state to the other have weighed in and the comments are still coming.
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I have been trying to figure out what to do with my free time now that I have decided not to run for President of the United States (or what’s left of it.) Some of you wrote and asked me to reconsider my decision. I am humbled by your pledges of support but I don’t want to broach the subject again with the Woman Who Shares My Name. She has access to a lot of broccoli and says she know where she can get more. I had best leave that alone.
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It seems to me that the idea of making a bucket list has become inordinately popular in the last few years since the movie by the same name appeared in 2008. In the movie, two terminally ill men escape from a cancer ward and head off on a road trip with a wish list of to-dos before they die. Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman outdo themselves in this movie, as far as I’m concerned. I can’t at the moment remember their escapades. It’s been a while since I saw the movie, but I thoroughly enjoyed it at the time. Nonetheless, the movie moved the expression “bucket list” into the everyday vernacular. Now everyone seems to have such a list with bungee jumping as number one.
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Last week ended the 40 day period that Governor Deal had to sign or veto bills passed by the legislature during the legislative session. The following bills were signed by the Governor since my last report. I will also discuss a couple of controversial bills that the Governor vetoed.
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On Saturday before Mother’s Day, we spent a lovely afternoon in Atlanta. About 3 o’clock we loaded a set of proud grandparents, two little brothers, a set of proud parents, and of course Trey and his trumpet into the minivan and headed off to Trey’s final band concert of the year at Kennesaw College auditorium. The other set of proud grandparents came in a separate car. We then stood in the cool lobby with about 500 other people waiting for the doors to open at 4:30. We had to have the band members there at 3:30 to practice one last time. The rest of us ambled into the art gallery and admired the drawings and sculpture, then luckily found a seat along the lobby wall before the crowd packed in.
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As you take a moment to catch your breath and enjoy a brief respite before you start the process all over again, I hope you will reflect on the good you do; the impact you have on young people; your ability to make a difference. Yours isn’t a job. It is a calling.
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The aroma of well-decayed compost teased my nostrils Friday morning and the crisp, cool spring breeze caressed my face, keeping at bay the mosquitoes, at least for a while. The pungent smell of dirt grew stronger as I raked dead leaves, small sticks, and pine straw into piles to mulch my flower beds. My grandson Stuart and I had picked up a barrelful of pine cones before we started raking. We worked close to the bigger woods that form the side of our property, but not actually in them. In fact, we were working right in the back yard under a copse of oaks, pines, and assorted small trees that I can’t identify.
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